


This Wicked Game

by spectre_tabris



Series: Canon(ish) Cassandra/Kyra One-Shots [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/F, Pre-Relationship, Queer Cassandra Pentaghast, Temporarily Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-08-27 09:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8396764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectre_tabris/pseuds/spectre_tabris
Summary: Kyra Lavellan knows beyond a shadow of a doubt the exact moment she realized she was in love with Cassandra Pentaghast, could say down to the minute just when she looked at her wayward heart and understood just how much trouble she was in.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song Wicked Game, originally by Chris Isaac but I had the [Gemma Hayes cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RqbTpkq62VA) in mind when writing this.
> 
> And yes, there will be a Cassandra-centric second part to this. Eventually.

Kyra Lavellan’s attraction to Cassandra Pentaghast manifests pretty much the moment she sees her. The sword at her throat is admittedly a little off-putting, but Kyra is more than willing to overlook that in favor of admiring her captor’s strong jawline and sharp cheekbones. (She has never claimed to have the greatest self-preservation instincts in the world, all right?) But as the reality of her situation sinks in, that brief thread of interest is drowned out by a tidal wave of horror and grief. For the first few months of their acquaintance Cassandra’s attractiveness is a non-issue as Kyra struggles to come to terms with everything she has lost - her brother, her place in her clan, her future. Her entire world crumbled to dust right alongside the Temple of Sacred Ashes and she finds the one that has replaced it impossible to understand. She has neither the time nor the energy to spare to worry about anything as pointless as a crush.

But though time may not heal all wounds, it does make them easier to bear, and as the weeks turn into months Kyra finds her attention caught once more by the strength of Cassandra’s shoulders and the fire of her belief - belief in her Maker, in the Inquisition, in Kyra herself. Dormant feelings she had nearly forgotten about start to reawaken until just the sight of Cassandra practicing in the yard or reading in the library or arguing with Varric is enough to keep Kyra distracted for the rest of the day. For all its intensity, it is a casual sort of interest - appreciation without serious intent - and beyond the occasional flirtatious remark that makes its way into their conversations, very little changes between the two of them.

That casual interest grows, as such things are wont to do when fed with genuine admiration and respect, into something less casual and more serious. Kyra could not say with any confidence just when this shift occurs, when attraction blossoms into love; it is a gradual thing, a slow fall. In retrospect, the first signs were there as far back as Redcliffe Castle, the agony of watching the Cassandra from that wretched future sacrifice herself to buy Kyra just a few more precious moments so much worse than she would have expected (had it ever occurred to her to consider anything of the kind). At the time, though, Kyra was still too blinded by grief and the horror of that nightmare to notice anything beyond how much it _hurt_.

What she does know beyond the shadow of a doubt is the exact moment she _realized_ she was in love: she could say down to the minute just when she looked at her wayward heart and understood just how much trouble she was in.

Four months after the Inquisition’s arrival at Skyhold, the assault on Adamant looming like a specter on the horizon, Kyra stands on the battlements overlooking the courtyard with Cassandra at her side. The day is unseasonably warm courtesy of one of the many spells woven into the fortress’s ancient walls to keep it livable (spells Kyra and Dorian have spent more than one sleepless night trying and failing to reverse engineer) and Kyra’s ears ring with the echo of “I cannot return your affections” and “the Herald of Andraste, and my leader...and a woman” while her heart shatters in her chest. She almost doesn’t recognize the feeling for what it is: why would she? Love isn’t supposed to hurt, not like this. This cannot be what all the songs and stories rhapsodise about.

But for all her flaws Kyra has never been one to delude herself. She might not have thought to look for it before, but now that it has been all but thrown in her face she cannot pretend she does not know exactly what it is. She cannot pretend she does not know why her heart races any time Cassandra is near, why a long day seems just a little less long when she can share it with Cassandra, why the words spilling from Cassandra’s lips send a sharp spike of agony straight through Kyra’s useless heart.

She is head over heels in love with Cassandra Pentaghast, who even now is in the midst of explaining how she does not, cannot, will never love her back.

In the long months that Kyra has spent with the Inquisition, first as their symbol and then as their leader, she has been subjected to horrors and abuses she had never even thought possible. She has been beaten and bruised, impaled, set on fire, frozen, and on one occasion she tries desperately to forget, all of those at once. She has had her culture and her beliefs mocked and belittled at every turn and she spends her every waking moment in a world that is not her own, one that swings between worshipful and hostile with neither warning nor pattern. Yet somehow despite all of that the worst pain she has suffered since the Fade itself swallowed her up and spat her back out is this, the gentle rejection of a dear friend.

It is typical, she admits, that she finally realizes how much Cassandra means to her just in time to watch any shred of hope she may have harbored of reciprocation crumble to dust beneath the weight of Cassandra’s words, the sympathy in her eyes.

There is a hesitance to the way Cassandra ends her statement, enough of a question lurking behind her “I hope we can remain friends” for Kyra to realize that Cassandra is honestly concerned. There is at least a part of her - though Kyra does not know how large a part - that fears Kyra’s reaction, fears for the friendship they have forged. And here Kyra had thought she couldn’t feel worse about this entire situation.

She forces herself to ignore her own emotions, her hurt and her heartbreak, to shove them aside in favor of focusing on Cassandra. She will have time to come to terms with everything that has just happened later, once she can sequester herself in some forgotten nook of Skyhold far from the curious eyes of its inhabitants; right now she just needs Cassandra to know that she hasn’t ruined anything, that they are going to be fine.

Reassurances tumble out of her, promises that their friendship will not be affected simply because Kyra can’t keep her heart under control. She laces her words with sincerity, a vow to herself as much as it is to Cassandra. She will not let her feelings get in the way, values what they have too much to let something as silly as a broken heart ruin it. She will take her love and her desire and everything that is not platonic and tuck it away, box it up and ignore it until it fades into nothingness.

Cassandra’s entire expression settles into a quiet sort of relief at her words and Kyra manages to keep herself together for long enough to watch her walk away. The moment Cassandra is out of sight, however, Kyra’s face falls and her shoulders sag and she lets herself crumble down until she sits with her back against the low wall of the parapet, safely out of sight of anyone on the ground or peering out a window. She _will_ get over this, eventually - anything else is not an option. But that will come later. For the next few minutes, at least, she will let herself grieve.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this only took about, oh, three months longer than I intended it to. Oops? Sorry about that.

Inquisitor Kyra Lavellan has been a sight to behold tonight, the hours of careful instruction put in by Ambassador Montilyet and Enchanter Vivienne over the last few months paying off as the Inquisitor plays the Game like one born to it, smiling and dancing and charming her way through the festering snakepit that is the Orlesian nobility. To a stranger’s eye she appears in her element, confident and in control. Only someone who knows her well, someone who has travelled the length and breadth of Southern Thedas with her, who has fought at her side, spent countless hours with her engaged in conversation both deep and frivolous, would be able to read the fear in the set of her shoulders, the fragility of her careful smile.

For all that Kyra’s discomfort is clear to her even from halfway across the ballroom, Cassandra cannot help but be impressed by her performance: everyone from the palace servants up to Empress Celene herself seem to be fooled, the entire court abuzz with praise and adulation for the Inquisition’s leader. She is doing splendidly, far better than any of her Inner Circle had dared hope, which means that there is no reason for Cassandra’s fingers to itch with the desire to pull her aside, get her away from the crowd with their sharp eyes and sharper tongues (for all their pretty compliments, Cassandra is not deaf: she has heard the murmurs of “knife ear” and “savage” from those very nobles who now sing Kyra’s praises and she is certain her friend has heard them, too). She knows that Kyra hates this game she is forced to play just as much as Cassandra herself would in her position, if not more: while Cassandra may detest the entire charade, she at least was raised to know how to navigate it. She was not thrown headfirst into court intrigue with little preparation and expected to succeed.

But though Cassandra keeps a close eye on her leader throughout the night (alongside her watch for suspicious activity or signs of the assassin they seek), never once does Kyra show any signs of requiring rescue. She charms the court, she follows leads, she explores every nook and cranny of the Winter Palace, and she does it all without letting anyone outside of their party see her discomfort.

Those investigations pay off and Cassandra’s hand clenches around the hilt of her sword as she watches Kyra approach Grand Duchess Florianne. She is drawing stares - curious and disapproving both - from those nearby, she knows, but she cannot bring herself to care. She has been against Kyra’s plan from the start, had argued in favor of eliminating Florianne immediately and having done with it rather than relying on the whim of the Imperial Court, and should her fears come true and Kyra’s gambit fail, Cassandra must be prepared for the fight that is certain to ensue.

She needn’t have worried. Kyra’s performance is flawless and Cassandra can see in the Grand Duchess’s eyes the moment she realizes she has been outmaneuvered. This knowledge allows Cassandra to relax, loosening her grip on her sword in favor of watching Kyra wield words like weapons in a way Cassandra would never have imagined her capable. The woman standing there in the middle of the hall, head held high and proud even with the eye of every member of the Orlesian court upon her, is a far cry from the timid little girl the soldiers fished out of the rubble of the Temple of Sacred Ashes so long ago. She has grown into her new role in ways Cassandra had never noticed until they were shoved in her face.

Cullen’s men take the Grand Duchess into custody and the Orlesian Empress and Dalish Inquisitor stand side by side to address the gathered crowd. Back in the privacy of Skyhold’s War Room (and for the entirety of the ride to Halamshiral) Kyra had had much to say about Celene Valmont, most of it couched in insults and curses in at least three languages. She had railed against Celene’s treatment of her elven subjects, both in general and specifically with regards to her now-infamous purge of the Halamshiral alienage. She had criticized Celene’s politics and her personality, ranted about having to “make nice” with a woman she detested with every fiber of her being. (When confronted with the decision about whether or not to allow Florianne to accomplish her mission, Cassandra had honestly expected Kyra to let Celene die, right up until Kyra’s furious denunciation of Gaspard and his “hunting expeditions.”) Right now, however, sharing a speech and a dance with the so-called Empress of Fire, no hint of Kyra’s seething hatred is anywhere to be found. She smiles as she leads Celene around the dance floor, laughing politely at the Empress’s quiet comments.

Cassandra knows that she would not have managed half so well in such a situation and she feels her admiration for her friend and leader, far from insignificant to begin with, grow with each passing moment. She watches as Kyra’s dance with Celene ends, as Kyra pulls each  member of her Inner Circle into a dance in turn (this time the enjoyment on her face is real, a genuine delight that shines from her like a beacon), as Kyra bows out after her dance with Dorian (and oh, the shocked murmurs _that_ had evoked: the Herald of Andraste and the Tevinter heathen, the Dalish elf and the Magister) and makes her escape out to a side balcony and the closest thing to privacy she is likely to find tonight.

“Are you going to go after her?”

Cassandra tries not to jump at the unexpected voice at her shoulder. She turns enough to glance over without losing sight of the door to the balcony Kyra has claimed as her own - she wants to make certain on one tries to intrude upon their leader uninvited - and sees Leliana standing there, hands clasped behind her back and a knowing smile on her face.

“Leliana,” she greets, neither welcoming nor chasing her away.

“Cassandra,” Leliana says in the same neutral tone. “You did not answer my question.”

“What question?”

Leliana gives a little frown that in any other surroundings Cassandra is certain would be a sigh, like she thinks Cassandra is being purposefully difficult. “The Inquisitor. Are you going to go speak with her or do you intend to spend the entire night staring after her like a lovesick puppy?”

Her word choice draws a growl from Cassandra. “I am not _lovesick_ ,” she snaps. That is...not a topic she wishes to think about, especially not in connection to the the Inquisitor. The uncomfortable conversation the two had shared on the battlements of Skyhold is still fresh in Cassandra’s mind despite the months that have passed and while Kyra has shown no sign of any undue distress or discomfort around Cassandra in the time since, it still feels a callous thing to joke about.

Leliana’s disapproving stare tells Cassandra that it _wasn’t_ a joke, at least not entirely and she finds her hand drifting toward her sword hilt once more - not out of any desire to use it, especially not on Leliana, but merely for reassurance, a nervous habit. Why is everyone constantly misinterpreting her intentions toward Kyra? What is she doing to make first Kyra herself and now Leliana and Maker only knows how many others so convinced that Cassandra desires more than she has?

Some of this must show on her face, for Leliana shakes her head with a quiet sigh, hardly audible over the murmur of the nearby conversations.

“You have been watching her all night, ready to swoop in like her knight in shining armor,” she tells Cassandra, her tone leaving no room for argument. “When are you going to stop lying to yourself and admit that you love her?”

Cassandra closes her eyes and presses her lips together to keep from saying anything she might regret - or that might draw the attention of any of the nearby nobles. Though they seem content to ignore Cassandra and Leliana’s quiet conversation, Cassandra knows that any sign of conflict will draw their eyes like flies to vinegar.

“Leliana, don’t you have someone else to pester?” she asks in place of any of the many furious comments lurking at the tip of her tongue in response to Leliana’s misguided meddling.

The noise of disgust Leliana makes in response to the brush-off draws a frown from Cassandra: she is certain that Leliana picked that particular sound up from _her_ and she does not think she approves of having her own expressions used against her.

“Fine. Have it your way. You have no interest in her whatsoever. You _haven’t_ been glaring at anyone who so much as looks at her appreciatively. I must have been seeing things. Regardless, I suspect our esteemed leader could use the company of someone less poisonous than our hosts.”

She does not give Cassandra a chance to respond (though she does not know how she would - while Leliana’s assertion that she is imagining anything is ludicrous, as terrifyingly perceptive as she is, so too is her less-than-subtle accusation), just turns on her heel and disappears back into the crowd.

Cassandra snarls under her breath about interfering spymasters, but even if nothing else Leliana said has any value, her comment about Kyra resonates with Cassandra’s own thoughts on the matter. Cassandra has not spoken to her properly since closing the rift in the courtyard and it would set her mind at ease to check and see how her friend is handling everything that has happened.

With that in mind Cassandra makes her way across the room towards Kyra’s balcony. She does not bother trying to dodge the various party-goers: the crowd parts around her instead, even the Orlesian nobles with all their pompous arrogance wordlessly ceding ground to the determination in Cassandra’s stride (or perhaps to the quiet threat of the sword hanging from her hip).

She passes the Empress’s witch at the balcony door, the woman’s presence sending a frisson of unease along Cassandra’s spine. After the Inquisition’s alliance with Fiona’s people she has grown accustomed to dealing with mages without the structure imposed by the Circles, but there is something different about Morrigan, something wild and unnerving. The arch look she gives Cassandra as they pass one another does not help matters, and Cassandra resolves to keep a close eye on her in the future.

Then the balcony door closes behind her and all thoughts of Morrigan are set aside for a more appropriate time. Kyra stands against the rail overlooking the garden below, eyes closed and face turned into the night breeze. Cassandra is struck by the beauty of it, the way the moonlight catches on the tiny jewels worked into Kyra’s hair, the silver of the clasps of her tunic. She looks so peaceful, like the weight of her position has been lifted from her shoulders, that Cassandra hesitates. She does not want to interfere, does not want to drag Kyra back to reality and all the problems that come with it.

Before Cassandra can make her retreat back to the ballroom and leave Kyra in peace, Kyra turns toward her, face breaking into a bright smile.

“Hey, Cassandra,” she greets. Her voice has lost the power and persuasiveness of her speeches to the court and the return of her usual quiet words settles something in Cassandra she had not even realized was askew. Comforted by the invitation implicit in Kyra’s welcome, Cassandra walks over until she stands at her side, unable to shake the bone-deep certainty that this is exactly where she belongs.

“How are you?” she asks, her sincerity turning what could have been a bland politeness into something genuine, and though Kyra laughs there is no humor there.

“If I never have to give a speech again it will be too soon,” she grumbles. With the words it is like another of Kyra’s masks slips away and Cassandra realizes just how exhausted her friend really is. There is a tiredness around her eyes and tugging at the corners of her mouth and Cassandra aches to wipe it away, to whisk Kyra off somewhere she will never have to deal with any of this pageantry again.

“You did very well,” she says instead of voicing any such thoughts. “The court appears to be smitten with you.”

Another of those humorless laughs that Cassandra decides she hates. Kyra holds up her hands, letting Cassandra see how much they are shaking.

“I’m a fucking mess,” she admits, the vulgarity of her word choice a sharp contrast to the finery of their surroundings. “I spent the entire time I was up there afraid that I was going to vomit or have a panic attack or do something else awful that Josephine have to spend weeks trying to smooth over. I’m pretty sure half of the reason I didn’t was the thought of adding even more work to her load. The poor woman does not deserve that.”

Cassandra attempts a comforting smile (it is not an expression she has much practice with and she is not certain how effective it is) as she wraps her fingers around Kyra’s wrist to still the shaking and guide her hand back to the rail. “I do not believe you have anything to worry about on that count. Ambassador Montilyet seemed euphoric over how well this event has gone.”

Kyra groans and tips her head to the side, temple resting on Cassandra’s shoulder. Even beneath the thick material of her formal tunic, Cassandra can still feel the heat of her, warmth radiating out from that single point of contact. “Can I just...never speak to anyone ever again?” she asks, a hint of a tired whine slipping into her voice that Cassandra finds almost charming, despite the fact that coming from anyone else it would have done nothing but infuriate her. “Is that a thing that can happen?”

Cassandra lets out a quiet little hum. “I can leave if you would prefer solitude,” she offers, though she can think of little she would like to do less than leave Kyra’s side. Kyra shakes her head, the motion jarring Cassandra’s shoulder.

“You don’t count.”

And that simple sentence should not affect Cassandra as it does, filling her with a gentle sort of contentedness. She knows how difficult Kyra finds interacting with people and how much she prefers her own company to the drain of socialization, and Kyra’s frank admission that Cassandra is an exception to that rule is somewhat intoxicating.

They stand in silence for a long moment, enjoying one another’s company and the reprieve from the Game going on back in the ballroom. The night is warm and Cassandra thinks she could happily spend the rest of the party exactly like this, hidden away from it all with Kyra by her side.

But as nice as the thought is, Cassandra is well aware that it is impossible. Before too much longer those inside will start to notice the absence of the evening’s hero and come out in search of her. So when Kyra pulls away some time later, Cassandra fully expects her to excuse herself and return to the ballroom. What she does not expect is for Kyra to stop an arm’s length from Cassandra and hold out her hand.

Cassandra looks from the proffered hand to Kyra’s face and back again, a quizzical furrow to her brow as she tries and fails to understand. What is she...?

Kyra rolls her eyes in a gentle tease, some of her normal spirit slipping back into her features. She wiggles her fingers, the leather of her glove almost black in the dim light.

“Come on,” she says. “I’ve almost got the whole set. I even got Varric out onto the dance floor and I was certain he was going to spend the entire evening lurking by the drinks.”

“Are you asking me to _dance_?”

Kyra nods and it is only then that Cassandra notices the hesitance in her eyes, as though she is not quite certain she should be asking. The idea is...not as unpleasant as Cassandra would have expected. She is not fond of dancing, as a general rule, years of lessons stripping the romance from the activity. But if there is one thing Cassandra has learned while watching Kyra twirl their friends around the dance floor, it is that Kyra adores it. Until their escape to the balcony, dancing was the only time that evening that she had actually looked happy, like none of the stresses of the ball could touch her so long as she kept her focus on her footwork and her partner. And Cassandra can think of far worse ways to spend her time than witnessing that delight up close.

She reaches out to take Kyra’s hand, Kyra’s slender fingers twining with Cassandra’s stronger ones, and closes the distance between them.

As far as Cassandra has seen, with every dance partner Kyra has had this evening she has taken the lead without any question or hesitation. Even Empress Celene had been relegated to following, a pointed display of the power dynamics in that particular alliance. It is a political statement, a wordless, uncontested declaration of the Inquisitor’s status as the most powerful person in a room full of powerful people. Which means that when Kyra places her free hand on Cassandra’s shoulder rather than her waist and steps into Cassandra’s arms instead of pulling Cassandra into hers, it takes Cassandra a moment to understand. And even then, she does not quite believe the evidence of her senses.

Kyra catches her gaze and raises a challenging eyebrow as though daring Cassandra to comment. Instead of obliging her Cassandra just adjusts her stance and slips easily into the lead. She refuses to read too much into Kyra’s actions, almost afraid of the meaning she might find hidden within them, opting to focus her attention on the way Kyra feels in her arms, on the twisting play of muscle beneath her palm, of the light in Kyra’s eyes as she allows Cassandra to guide her through the dance.

It is nothing like dancing with her tutors, Cassandra notes absently, or even like the handful of dances she had been forced into at events like tonight’s before she was in a position to ignore any such social obligations. For one thing, the proximity to Kyra is the furthest thing from unpleasant and rather than keep as much space as is physically possible between her and her partner Cassandra finds herself drawing her closer, tucking her nose into Kyra’s carefully-arranged curls. She smells of lightning and lyrium, a combination that for decades meant _danger_ but somehow since meeting Kyra has started to mean _home_ , something Cassandra has not had for a very long time.

That thought brings to mind Leliana’s words from before, words that Cassandra finds far more difficult to ignore here with Kyra warm in her arms. There is no sudden burst of realization, just a slow-dawning comprehension there on the balcony of the Winter Palace. It is the culmination of everything Cassandra has felt and thought and done all evening (and for many evenings before this, if she is honest) washing over her with all the quiet inevitability of the tide.

She can recall with perfect clarity the words she and Kyra had exchanged up on the high ramparts of Skyhold so many months ago; she remembers the utter certainty she had felt then. She respected the Inquisitor, valued her friendship above any others’, but she could not return the affection being offered to her. She could not.

Now, though? Now that certainty is nowhere to be found, chased away by the warmth of Kyra’s hand in hers, by the trust in the way Kyra allows Cassandra to lead her around their makeshift dancefloor, by the memory of the easy confidence in Kyra’s voice as she outplayed and outmaneuvered a master of the Game. Bereft of that sense of surety, of that conviction, Cassandra is forced to rely solely on the guidance of her heart and as her feet guide them through the steps of the dance she begins to fear that she has made a terrible mistake.

She had thought love to be a thing of dramatic gestures, of heartfelt speeches and romantic poetry, of candles and flowers and courting. She had never thought it could be something that sneaks up on you like an assassin, lurking in the shadows, quiet but ever-present until it grows too large to hide. She never thought it could be a surprise.

And yet here on a nearly-empty balcony in the heart of the Winter Palace, Kyra relaxed and smiling in her arms and the entire Orlesian Court mere feet away, Cassandra’s breath catches in her throat as it dawns on her - slowly but inexorably - that that is exactly what has happened.

(Is it? Is this love? She thinks it might be but she is not certain, not yet. It is at once both nothing and everything like what her stories have described and Cassandra is hesitant to put a name to it just yet. It is too new. Or is it merely her acceptance and awareness of it that is new? The feelings themselves, the softness in her heart at the thought of the woman in front of her, the comfort and delight Cassandra takes in her presence, they are old enough that she cannot recall a time when she did not feel this way.)

She considers saying something, considers pulling Kyra out of their dance and confessing everything. She does not know where Kyra’s feelings lie anymore - it has been over half a year since their discussion and she has given no sign of any continued interest in the time since - but Cassandra is confident that even if Kyra’s feelings have changed, she will not think less of her or allow Cassandra’s own feelings to affect their friendship any more than Cassandra herself had when their positions had been reversed. And in the unlikely event that Kyra’s feelings have _not_ changed...well, that line of thought is perhaps best left alone until she knows one way or the other. Getting too far ahead of herself will help no one.

But common sense stills her tongue before any such confession can escape. For all that they have found some modicum of privacy here out on their commandeered balcony, they are still at the Winter Palace and surrounded by the calculating eyes of the court. This is neither the time nor the place for that conversation.

When they return to Skyhold, once they are back within the safety of the familiar walls and far from the politics of Halamshiral, she will speak to Kyra. If nothing else, her friend deserves to know where Cassandra stands.

Until then, Cassandra has every intention of setting this entire topic aside and allowing herself to enjoy the moment. She closes her eyes, tightens her hand on Kyra’s waist, and lets the music wash over her. There will be time enough to deal with her emotions later. Right now, they are dancing.


End file.
